Being Me

by Lisa Renee Jones

  Laughter bubbles from my throat and I am amazed at how he takes me from somber to lighthearted. I love this about Chris. “The ‘man-cave’?”

  “That’s right. Are you scared?”

  “I guess it depends what kind of man-cave we’re talking about. Wasn’t the room you took me to at that club called the Lion’s Den?”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be gentle.” He wiggles a brow and pulls me forward and I instantly forget man-caves and Mark’s club. I am standing inside a massive room carved into a circle and windows surrounding me on all sides, the twinkling lights of the city enclosing me like a glove. I have this sense of being at the railing of a massive ship, about to tumble into an ocean of never-ending discovery.

  “It’s amazing,” I whisper, my gaze brushing his.

  “I told you,” he says. “This is why I bought the apartment.”

  I nod. “Yes. I understand.”

  He releases me, silently giving me the freedom to explore on my own, and I walk deeper into the core of this magnificent studio. Random easels sit on stands, all covered in cloths, and I am excited at the prospect of uncovering them and seeing what is beneath. My gaze catches on the splattered paint here and there beneath my feet, and I smile at the remnants of his work, his frustrations, his excitement to get paint on canvas.

  “I’ve been known to get a little messy while I work,” Chris informs me, stepping behind me, his hands settling on my waist, and I am instantly aware of him in every inch of my body. The sultry words of the song filter through the air—I just want to make you go away but you taste like sugar—and Chris leans down and murmurs something in French in my ear.

  I shiver with the erotic way the words roll off his tongue and twist in his arms to face him, wrapping my arms around his neck. “What did you say?”

  “I said,” he murmurs softly, “that I want to make you melt like sugar on my tongue like you did earlier.” He tugs the T-shirt I’m wearing up my hips and cups my bare ass, pulling me against the thick ridge of his erection. “And if I didn’t have a flight in two hours, I’d lick all that sweetness until you begged me to stop.”

  “I don’t beg,” I declare, though I have no idea how I’ve formed what could be called a sentence when his fingers are tracing the crevice between my cheeks and promising delicious exploration.

  “Oh, you’d beg, baby. I’d bet on it and if you tempt me much more I might just have to prove how fast. In fact”—he starts leading me toward a stool sitting in front of an easel—“I have time.”

  Yes. Please. “Two hours and you still have to drive across the bridge to the airport? You don’t have time.”

  “I have time.” He sets me on the stool and his hands settle on my waist. “Now, about the begging.”

  I smile. “You’re going to miss your flight. You do know that, don’t you?”

  He turns me to face the easel and tugs the shirt over my head. I brush hair from my eyes and suck in a breath at the painting I’m now staring at. It’s me, and I’m sitting in the middle of the floor of the “man-cave” on my knees with my hands bound in front me. “What’s that wrapped around my wrists?” I ask, my throat rasping with dryness when suddenly my hands are behind my back and I feel the tug of them being wrapped and bound.

  Chris steps in front of me and holds up a roll of tape. “Very efficient.”

  “Chris,” I whisper. “You’re going to miss your flight.”

  His lips curve seductively. “You clearly underestimate my efficiency.” He goes down on a knee in front of me and spreads my legs. “Now. On to the begging.” His hands, those talented, artistic hands, travel up my thighs and his thumbs stroke my clit. “I’m on a timer, right? I’d better get busy?” His tongue drags slowly, sensually over me. “Like sugar, baby, and I’m going to melt you like honey.”

  My body sways. “And I’m going to fall off this stool.”

  “Not if you lean into me,” he says, and slides two fingers inside me. “Lean.”

  I arch forward and slide. “I’m going to fall.”

  “I have you, Sara.” His fingers splay on my thighs. “Trust me. I have you.” His eyes hold mine and the depth of power and heat I find there are as limitless as what he makes me feel. His voice softens into a caress. “Relax into me.”

  Relax into him. Like I had in bed. I nod. “Yes.”

  Slowly, he lowers his head and I feel the warm trickle of his hot breath a moment before his mouth closes down on my clit. I gasp as his hand leaves my leg and my body shifts forward, but then his fingers are inside me, and that arch of my body is like sweet, unbearably necessary pressure. I am on the edge in a flash of seconds and Chris is wrong, so very wrong. I won’t beg. There isn’t time. I’m going to come and there is no question, none whatsoever, that this man owns me and I can’t think of a single reason why that’s a bad thing.

  • • •

  Forty-five minutes later, I’m still wearing nothing but Chris’s shirt and standing in the kitchen, watching while he downs the cup of coffee I’ve poured him as if it’s not scalding hot. His hair is damp, finger tossed, and sexy, and he’s wearing a light blue T-shirt with Spider-Man on the front that one of the kids he’s seeing at the hospital gave to him, with black jeans. I’m eager to discover what has inspired such fierce dedication to this charity and wish I had more time to ask him about his involvement.

  “Did you sleep at all?” I ask, and I try not to let my insecurity run wild. But if he wanted me in his bed, why wasn’t he in it with me?

  “I don’t sleep much at night. That’s when I paint.” He reaches for the cup I’m holding and sips some of my coffee. “I had something I wanted to paint for one of the kids. He’s a bit of a movie fanatic like I am so we’ve bonded over a few favorites.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Thirteen.”

  “Cancer?”

  He nods, his expression tightening. “Leukemia. Late stages. It’s destroying his parents. They’re good people forced to watch their child die.”

  My chest pinches painfully. “You’re sure he’s going to die?”

  “Yeah. He’s going to die. And believe me, if there was an amount of money or medicine that would change that, I’d make it happen.” He runs his hand through his fast-drying hair and turns away, walking to the phone and calling for a cab. I can see the tension ripple along his shoulders. I can’t imagine what it must be like to know someone you love is dying and be powerless to stop it, but I think Chris does. I mean, didn’t he watch his father slowly drink himself to death? I suddenly wish I was going with him and decide right then to try to get Saturday off, even if I have to use the charity event as publicity for the gallery to make it happen. And I’m darn sure going to make Mark open his thick wallet for a big fat donation.

  Chris hangs up the phone and turns to me and I don’t get the chance to ask why he’s taking a cab. “Come with me,” he says. “I didn’t cancel your reservation.”

  Knowing more about the charity only makes my reply harder. “Not this time.”

  He does not look appeased by my inference that I would accept a future invitation. “That’s not the right answer.”

  “It’s the only one I have.”

  He scrubs his jaw and turns to the counter directly beside me and presses his hands to it. His head falls forward and he just hangs there for several seconds, tension rolling off him in waves.

  I reach over and run my hand through the spiky blond of his hair. He lifts his head, and the concern in his pale green eyes glistens in sunlight beaming from the bay window behind us. “I’m going to be out of my mind with worry. Do you have any idea how hard it is for me to leave you like this?”

  “It’s hard for me to let you leave.”

  He registers my words, and I know I’ve pleased him, but his mood shifts, his jaw tenses. “I need you to do something for me, Sara. I need you to lock those journals in the safe in my closet and leave them there. I’ll give you the combination.”

  My heart begins to race
and I lean against the counter to see him more fully. “You’re worried someone will try and take them? I thought you said the apartment was safe?”

  He rotates around to face me. “It is safe. That’s not what I’m worried about or else I wouldn’t be trying to talk you into going with me. I’d be insisting instead. What I’m worried about is you reading the damn things and then reading into them. I’m asking you to put them away while I’m gone. Save your curiosity until I’m present and have the chance to explain whatever you read if you somehow relate it to you and me like you did last night.”

  “It’s not about curiosity, Chris. It’s about finding Rebecca.”

  “Let the private detective do his job. I’m going to put a call into him this morning to talk about what happened last night and see if he can get anything from the storage facility about the incident that we couldn’t.” His hands slide down my hair. “Please, Sara. Lock up the journals.”

  I swallow hard against the refusal that wants to spurt from my lips. This is important to him, and there is nothing in the journals I haven’t read at least once before. Reluctantly, I nod. “Yes. Okay. I’ll lock them up.”

  Approval crosses his face. “Thank you.”

  My lips curve at his thank-you.

  He arches a brow. “Why are you smiling?”

  “Because most macho control freaks don’t say ‘thank you.’ I like it.”

  “Enough to agree to fly up to Los Angeles Saturday after work and help me survive being stuffed in a tuxedo at a gala that evening?”

  I wiggle an eyebrow. “I get to see you in a tuxedo?”

  “Better. You can help me take it off.”

  “Deal,” I say with a laugh. “Though I want a picture before the undressing begins.”

  “I’ll give you the picture if I can talk you into bringing the painting I did last night with you. It’s not dry enough for me to carry with me.”

  “Of course. I don’t mind at all.”

  “Great. There’s a small room in the back of the studio with a high-tech dryer. It’s sitting back there. I’ll call you when I get settled and work out the travel arrangements.”

  The phone buzzes on the wall and he grabs it. “Be right down,” he murmurs and replaces the receiver before reluctantly announcing, “My cab is here.”

  “Why aren’t you driving?”

  “I want you to take the Porsche.”

  “I have my car.”

  “The Porsche has top-notch security. It knows where you are at all times.”

  A flash of a past I prefer to forget slips between us, sharpening my tone. “In other words, you want to know where I am at all times?”

  He appears unfazed by my reaction. “If I had to find you I could, but that’s not the point. If you were in trouble, you’d be found and found quickly. If you need help, you just tell the computer and it will get you help. It’s peace of mind for us both.”

  His reasoning isn’t horrible and the past begins to slip away, replaced by another, rather obvious potential motive. “And as a bonus me driving your car makes a statement to Mark.”

  He crosses his arms over his chest. “As a bonus, yes.”

  My hands go to my hips. “I don’t want to be in the middle of the war between the two of you. I’m not a game token, Chris.”

  He backs me against the counter, his legs framing mine, and in my bare feet and only his T-shirt, I feel tiny and he is larger-than-life. “It says you’re mine,” he informs me, his voice low, intense, “and I want him to know you’re mine.”

  I’m thrilled when I should be objecting. “And you, Chris?” I challenge instead. “Are you mine?”

  “Every bit of me, baby, good and bad.”

  I am shocked at how easily this declaration has rolled from his lips. My own lips part and no words come out.

  “Take the Porsche.” His voice is softer now, rough and seductive.

  He was right earlier, I conclude instantly. I melt like honey for this man when he wants me to. “I’ll take the Porsche.”

  Chris’s hand slides to the side of my face. “That’s the right answer, baby,” he murmurs, then slants his mouth over mine, his tongue pressing past my lips. The ripe taste of his approval mixed with the sweet nuttiness of hazelnut coffee floods my taste buds, and consumes me. I am happy for the first time in a very long time.

  Six

  Watching the elevator doors close on Chris leaves me hollow inside. I’m alone in his apartment and the happiness of the last few minutes has waned with the sensation of being lost. I know that distance does not have to create separation between us but our newfound closeness is fragile.

  For several seconds I face those steel doors, willing them to open again, but they do not, and with good reason. Chris has a flight to catch and a good reason to leave. I on the other hand have several hours until I have to be at work and way too much time to think. I tell myself to sleep, since I’ve done little of it, but I know that isn’t going to happen. There is simply too much weighing on my mind. Besides, I need to unpack and shower.

  I quickly head to the bedroom and find my nearly dead phone and dig the charger out of my suitcase. Once I’ve plugged it in and set it on the nightstand by the unmade bed, I glance at the closet. I’ve never actually shared a closet with a man before and I fight a wave of discomfort. I fight off the feeling. I am crazy about Chris. I am thrilled with the evolution of our relationship. So why am I fighting a sensation not so unlike what I felt in the storage unit, a sort of claustrophobia?

  “This is ridiculous,” I scold myself, then zip my case back up and snatch up the handle. “You want this man. You want to be close to him.” I roll it to the closet and flip on the light and my eyes go wide at what I find. The closet is amazing, a girl’s dream, the size of a small bedroom with racks for clothes that line each of the three sides that don’t have a door, only two of which are being used for Chris’s clothes.

  Once I’ve settled the case on the floor, I squat down and unzip it. My eyes catch on the safe embedded on the right wall and I find the door open. Chris hasn’t given me the combination yet and it’s unnerving to lock Rebecca’s things away without a way to get back inside.

  My teeth scrape my bottom lip and I stare down at my open case, at the small keepsake box and the journals lying on top of my things. I made a promise to Chris to lock the journals up. I gather the three journals and the box and carry them to the safe, and shove them inside, but I do not lock the door. The fourth journal is by the bed somewhere, where I’ve left it the night before, and I push to my feet and head to the other room to find it. I spot it on the floor by the bed and reach down to grab it but my hand slips and it falls open. I grab it and sit on the bed, staring at the open page. I know this entry. My knowledge of the contents makes the urge to read almost unbearable. I draw a breath and promise myself this is the last time I’ll touch any of the journals before Chris returns. I’ll call him before he’s in the air, get the combination to the safe, and lock them away. Air trickles from my lips and my gaze drops to the book.

  I woke this morning to the dull ache of my raw backside, proof of his punishment. I did not wear panties when I dressed for work. I cannot bear the touch of anything on my skin. The dull ache eased as the day went on but the memory of my punishment did not.

  I did, however, have several large sales today and my evening ended with a private showing of a famous artist’s collection. My clients were thrilled to meet the actual artist and I understand why. He has a gentle strength about him that carries through to his brush. He is passion personified and I wonder what it would be like to have a man like that feel passionate about me. I wonder what it would feel like to wake up my passion for life again, instead of just wondering what the new game will be. The games are no longer fun. They are not the escape they once were. He is not the Master he once was. I feel as if I am spiraling into darkness and I hunger for the kind of passion this artist has for life again. I hunger for more . . . but isn’t that what brought me to t
he gallery in the first place? A hunger for more? Maybe it’s the “more” that is the danger . . . because more just never seems to be enough.

  I slam the journal shut and my mind is on one thing. The artist Rebecca has written about. It’s not Chris, I tell myself. Chris would never invite strangers into his home and studio for a showing. It has to be Ricco Alvarez, who is meeting with me about some private showings; he apparently used to do them with Rebecca. So why am I still thinking of Chris? It’s insane. “Inherently private” is how he described himself. And even if Rebecca was talking about Chris, there is nothing in this entry, or any other, that suggests Rebecca’s lover had been an artist. My gut tightens and I shove to my feet and rush back to the closet. I drop down on the floor in front of the safe, before setting the journal I’m still holding inside. I pull out the velvet box and lift the lid and stare down at the paintbrush and picture of Rebecca that is torn in two so that I can’t see who was in the photo with her.

  “It’s not Chris,” I whisper. “It’s not.”

  My cell phone begins to ring and I shove the lid down and stick the box back inside the safe. I give the journal a glare and shove it inside the safe as well, and then I shut the safe and twirl the combination dial into place. I’m making myself crazy and I have to stop.

  Afraid I’m going to miss my call, I push to my feet and run toward the bedroom, certain it’s Chris, and reach it just as it stops ringing. A glance at the caller ID tells me it was Chris. I’m about to punch REDIAL when it rings again.

  “Chris,” I answer urgently, sitting on the edge of the bed, hoping to hear something in this call to erase the journal entry and how it’s made me feel.

  “If this was any other trip for any other reason, I wouldn’t be leaving.”

  “I know.” As insecure as I can be, in this moment, I feel the connection between myself and this man. “I also know that what you’re doing at the hospital is important. Where are you now?”

  “We just started to cross the bridge. I had to push my flight back an hour but I should still make all my scheduled events.”